The Perpetuity of Shadows
by N. Y. Smith
Summary: The events of Rosslyn cast long shadows . . .


Title: The Perpetuity of Shadows

Author: N. Y. Smith

Email: [minismith@aol.com][1]

Homepage: http://members.aol.com/minismith/

Date: October 31, 2000

Category: The West Wing AU, J/D romance

Spoilers: Shadow of Two Gunmen, mostly

Rating: PG-13

Summary: The events of Rosslyn continue to cast long shadows over many lives.

  
  


Table of Contents

[December 8][2]

[December 11][3]

[December 15][4]

[December 18][5]

[Benediction__][6]

  
  
  
  


_Friday, December 8_

_9:00 pm _

  
  


Josh Lyman slumped forward and clutched his chest, trying to push away the feeling that the C-141 military transport he'd just left was landing right on top of his sternum.

Donna Moss heard him gasp and took her right hand from the steering wheel of her car, pulling him toward her. "Josh?"

She pressed the back of her hand against his cheek, which was too cool and clammy. "You're going to the hospital. And this time you're not going to talk me out of it."

He nodded stiffly, but unknowingly, for the only sound in his ears was the doleful pounding of his heart.

Donna Moss' heart was thudding at lightspeed. "Try to relax," she encouraged.

He chuffed weakly and slid downward onto the seat, his head resting in her lap.

She tried to wipe the sweat from his brow while negotiating the late evening traffic around the White House, stealing glimpses of him when the street lights flew by. He'd been restless when they'd boarded the Air Force C141 in Jerusalem. By the Canary Islands, his color had turned ashen and he'd tried to nap in the orange hammock-like racks used for seating inside the fuselage of the military transport. Sometime after they'd refueled in-flight, he'd begun almost panting. "I'm fine," he'd protested breathlessly.

She hadn't believed him, but he had seemed to improve some with a few hours' sleep-his first in thirty-six hours. She, too, had slept, stretched out in the rack, her head next to his. His sleep had been fitful, he'd moan and cry out softly, just as he had during the seven weeks she'd worked with him in Jerusalem-not that the fractious "peace talks" had allowed much time for sleep. Merely an observer to the process-Jed Bartlet's "eyes and ears" in Jerusalem-he'd shuttled back and forth between the principles with little time left for the unimportant things like food and rest. The meetings had ended not with peace but with truce-likely short-term- and the President had recalled them to the White House. She whipped around a Mercedes limousine with diplomatic plates and a hand tugged at hers that had been resting about his hip. Fearful eyes looked up at her.

"Almost there," she cooed, thumb stroking the back of his fingers. Her voice sounded calm and reassuring but she was anything but that.

Donna was scared; he could feel her hand trembling while she comforted him. He felt the car lurch to a halt.

"I'll be right back," she promised and he nodded. 

Alone for what seemed like an eternity, he heard the snick of the door lock and felt hands tugging and pulling at him. Strapped to a gurney, he jostled across the pavement, then rolled down the halls, finally resting behind a curtain. A plastic mask covered his mouth and he breathed more easily. He heard talking, more like mumbling-Donna and someone else- in the background.

"Sir, can you tell me your name?" The face that appeared over him was rigid with practiced calm. The inquisitor tugged at his eyelids while awaiting the answer.

"Joshua Lyman," the patient mumbled beneath the mask. "Couldn't breathe."

"Is it better with the oxygen?"

The patient nodded.

"Your friend here says you're having chest pains?"

The patient nodded again, feeling the tug-tug-tug of clothing being scissored apart.

The inquisitor's faced blanched at the revelation of a twelve-inch long scar down the center of the patient's chest. "Have you had heart surgery, Josh?"

"Shot. Pulmonary artery." In the background he could hear Donna filling in the details, followed by the doctor barking for the patient's chart and his cardiologist. He felt the rush of cool air as, simultaneously, his rent clothing was tugged away and the scratchy sheet settled over him. He felt needle-pricks in both arms. Sticky patches were applied to his chest and, in a moment, instead of the steady beep-beep-beep he'd gotten to know in the Coronary Intensive Care Unit, he heard a rapid, but steady, pattern of beeps. He strained his neck to see the screen but, instead, saw Donna in the corner, licking her lips like she did when she was scared. She saw him see her and, in an instant, the face brightened with a false light, a smile splitting her face while her eyes couldn't hide the fear.

He held out a wobbly hand to her and she stepped forward to grasp it. An odd feeling of relief washed over him and the rapid beeping noise slowed.

"Ma'm, you have to move," a nurse ordered firmly.

"Let her stay," a voice ordered from the curtain. The face that appeared before him, like the voice, was genuinely calm and confident. "I'm Ann Hunter, Mr. Lyman. I'll be your cardiologist this evening," she said in a waiter's voice, small smile lifting her cheeks.

The patient smiled back and the beeps slowed even more.

"_Your_ cardiologist is in Russia this week on an Angel Flight. I assisted him when you were here before, so I am familiar with your history." 

Slowly, the room cleared until only one nurse remained with them.

"I know you have one big question: are you having a heart attack?" The doctor studied white strips of paper as she pulled them between her hands. "We don't know yet."

"Why not?" Donna Moss asked sharply.

The doctor smiled patiently. "Lots of things can cause chest pain and shortness of breath. We'll continue monitoring his heart until the bloodwork comes back. That should tell us a lot."

"How long?" Donna's tone was impatient.

"An hour-maybe two."

"Can you do something for the pain?"

"Sure." The doctor scribbled on the chart then handed it to the nurse, who disappeared into the hall. She stood and lifted his eyelids, shining a light into each. "You seem to be pinking up a little, Mr. Lyman. Are you breathing easier?"

"Yeah," he breathed beneath the mask. "Doesn't hurt as much."

"Good," the doctor nodded and the nurse injected something into the IV line.

"Cold," Josh murmured.

"Sorry," the doctor pulled the sheet higher on his chest. "Better?"

"Yeah."

Donna maintained her post. "What happens next?"

The doctor glanced at the monitors again before responding. "Well, for now, we wait. There's some paperwork that needs to be done in the admitting office, Ms. . . ."

"Moss. Donna Moss." She stroked Josh's hand. "You're admitting him?"

"Yeah," the doctor confirmed.

"But what if nothing's wrong with him?" The younger woman's eyes opened wide. "He's not even forty. He's young, he's strong . . ."

The doctor took a deep breath. "Six months ago I spent the better part of a day sewing the major artery from his heart back together. There's something wrong; it's just a matter of what."

The monitor beeped faster again. "Like what?" the patient asked.

"How about," the doctor crossed her arms in front of her, but her tone remained almost jovial, "we deal with it when we know what it is? Now," she spread a blanket over him and pulled back the curtain, "we're gonna let you wait with your friends in the Coronary Care Unit while Ms. Moss takes care of the business side of things."

Still holding his hand, Donna leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. "I'll be right there," she whispered.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Sam Seaborn slammed the handset back into the cradle. "Where are you, Josh?" he muttered, then turned over to try to catch some sleep.

  
  


_Monday, December 11_

_7:00 am_

  
  


"Donna, I'm just a little dizzy; I'm not an invalid!" Josh Lyman leaned heavily against his doorway while she led him into his office.

"Maybe not," she set his backpack on his desk, "but you are acting like a child."

She spun on her heel, but he caught her elbow. "I know," he said softly. "I'm sorry. For everything."

"You can't help it that you're sick." She wiped away the tear coursing down his cheek. "But you have to take care of yourself."

He swayed, then sat heavily in his chair, panting. "I sound like an old man and I only walked from the car."

"It's the medicine, Josh."

"No, it's the bullet, Donna." He said angrily as he pulled his papers from his backpack.

"You'll get better."

"Marginally," he chuffed.

"You're alive," she said pointedly.

"Yeah," he sneered, "as long as I take twelve pills a day, no fat, no sugar, no cholesterol, no caffeine. I'm not sure I call that living. I'm not sure I want to."

"Don't talk like that!" she whispered angrily. "You don't have the right to talk like that!"

"The hell I don't," his face flushed. "Three yahoos put a bullet in me just because I was standing near someone they didn't like. I should have died . . ."

"No, you shouldn't," her pallor reddened. "By the prayers of your friends, the skills of world-class surgeons and the grace of God, you're here. And you don't have the right to give up after all that."

He leaned heavily against the back of his chair, eyes closed, licking his lips. "I'm afraid," he said with a sigh, eyes meeting hers.

"I know," she whispered gently, moving to kneel in front of him.

"I'm not sure I can do this," he propped his chin in his hands, folding with a wince to prop his elbows on his knees..

She rested her forehead against his. "I'm sure you can," her eyes radiating confidence.

He cupped his hands on both sides of her face, pulling her to him. "Thank you," he whispered, punctuating with a kiss that was only a little more than friendly.

"You're welcome," she beamed, somehow shyly.

"Well," he said after several moments, leaning back in his chair and tapping up his schedule on the computer. "What's next?"

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Friday, December 15_

  
  


"Well, this has been the week from hell," Sam Seaborn shut his portfolio with a snap that echoed around the now-empty conference room.

"I dunno," Josh Lyman disagreed, "any of the seven I spent in Cairo were right up there." He shuffled his own stack of papers. "Or should I say _down_ there?"

Sam grinned. "Yeah, but think of all you accomplished . . ."

"Yeah, the thirty-six hour days, then endless bitterness and acrimony . . ."

"A cease-fire . . ."

"That's falling apart as we speak . . ."

"I was trying to be optimistic . . ." Seaborn rebuked sheepishly.

Lyman chuckled.

"Come on," Seaborn beckoned from the door, "I'll buy you dinner. Sort of a welcome-home celebration."

Lyman pushed away from the table. "Sam," he stood quickly and took three steps toward the door, "I really appreciate it," the world faded to a soft, fuzzy black, "but," he felt himself crumpling to the ground. In an instant his friend's face appeared above him.

"Are you alright?"

Still shrouded in darkness, Lyman nodded wordlessly.

"I'm getting a doctor."

"No!" Josh grabbed his friend's sleeve. "Just get Donna."

Seaborn bounded down the hall toward Donna Moss' desk. He was still twenty feet away when, spying his terrified expression, she pulled something from a drawer and followed him without a question. By the time they reached the conference room, Josh had propped his legs in a chair and was staring, mortified, at the ceiling.

"Any pain?" she asked, pressing her palm against his forehead, then holding her fingers against his neck.

"No," he whispered. "Just got up too quickly." He pushed himself up on his elbows.

"Ready to sit up?" She kneeled beside him.

"Yeah." He let her pull him to a sitting position.

"Ready for more?" she asked after a moment.

He nodded and she motioned for Seaborn to take the other arm, steadying him between them while he found his balance.

"You okay?" Seaborn asked suspiciously.

"Yeah," Lyman replied sheepishly. "Just haven't caught up on my rest yet." He wrested his arms from their grip and stepped cautiously, then more confidently, toward his office.

Seaborn looked to Donna, whose look confirmed Lyman's excuse albeit lukewarmly.

"What about dinner?" Seaborn persisted.

Lyman exchanged a glance with his assistant. "Another night?"

"Yeah," Seaborn agreed reluctantly. "Another night."

  
  


***

  
  


Sam Seaborn stood in front of the half-opened door of Josh Lyman's apartment. A million things were whirling around in his head, the crux of which was the reason for his friend's collapse. As he'd replayed the week in his head a zillion little incidents, each insignificant on their own, added up to something which bore investigation: Lyman's corny quips had been absent, his rolling step plodding, his demeanor distracted, and most damning, he'd gone home at six every night-including tonight, Friday night. That just wasn't like Josh, he was a workaholic a-

"Well, if it isn't Elijah," Josh Lyman's ruddy face in the door interrupted his reverie.

"Hunh?" Seaborn responded stupidly, but followed Lyman's beckoning hand to the dinner table where two candles burned brightly. It was only then that Seaborn noticed his friend, changed into running pants and a crew shirt, was wearing a yarmulke. He stopped cold. "The Sabbath; I'm sorry," he apologized and began retreating.

"Come on," Lyman grabbed his arm while Donna placed another plate and silver on the table. "Have you eaten?"

"I really shouldn't," Seaborn chattered nervously. "This is a . . . it looks like a . . . I'm not a . . ."

"Sit your ass down," Lyman ordered his friend. His tone was jovial, but dark circles rimmed his eyes. He was slightly stooped, and plodded slightly to his chair across the table. He moved the serving bowls near his friend.

Seaborn, nonplussed for a moment, reluctantly filled his plate with servings large enough to be polite, but too small to be filling. He stuffed a fork full into his mouth, then hummed. "This reminds me of dinners at your dad's."

A distant smile lifted Lyman's wan face. He propped his white-socked feet up on the seat of the chair next to him and his head on his hand. "I'm glad he's gone," he began, "that he wasn't here for everything this year."

"You don't mean that, Josh," Donna soothed, stroking his forearm with her long, slender fingers.

He twined his fingers with hers and brought them to his lips. He nuzzled them tenderly while his friend, who'd begun tentatively, ate ravenously. They watched Sam with bemusement, still entwined, until he dropped his fork into his plate and dragged the napkin across his mouth.

It was then he realized they'd been watching, and he reddened. "Sorry," he said.

"It's okay," Donna soothed.

The clock ticked off the seconds until Josh whispered unevenly, "Ask what you came to ask, Sam."

Donna, who'd been watching Sam, turned her face to Josh, who sought, and found, a strength in her countenance. He smiled at her then, relinquished her hand with a squeeze. She moved to stand behind him, her hands crossed over the cord-like cicatrix that marked the location of his heart.

Seaborn hesitated anxiously, then pulled an amber pill bottle from his pocket, setting it on the white tablecloth between them. "I found it on the floor in the conference room."

Lyman regarded the item with a slow intake of breath and a sharp exhale. Patting Donna's hands dismissively, he leaned forward and took the bottle in his hand while she gathered their plates and disappeared into the kitchen. "I'm okay," he said when they were alone.

Anger reddened Seaborn's face, "That pill bottle, and the nosedive you took in the conference room today, says you're not, Josh."

"It's just a precaution."

"'Take as needed for chest pain'," Seaborn quoted the instruction on the bottle.

"I know what it says, Sam," Lyman snapped.

"How long have you been sick?"

"I'm not sick," Lyman bluffed.

"When was the last time you needed the medicine?"

"Last Friday," Josh confessed. "But I'm fine now."

Seaborn stood sharply, "The hell you are. You're thirty-nine years old and your name is on a prescription for medication given to people who have heart attacks!" Seaborn paced before perching in the chair Donna had vacated. "What's wrong, Josh?" he whispered raggedly. "What's wrong?"

Lyman turned the bottle over in his hand, avoiding his friend's anguished stare. "Angina," he said, finally. "Chronic _stable_ angina." It was only then that he met his friend's look, momentarily. "When they stitched my pulmonary artery back together which, I'm told, was a nifty trick in and of itself, they had to trim off some of the ragged edges so they would heal properly. Watertight." He stood, unsteadily at first, then moved to the couch, Sam perching on the coffee table. Lyman's eyes cast about the room, as if searching for words. "The pulmonary artery is supposed to be approximately twenty-five millimeters in diameter. Mine's now twenty. It's supposed to be smooth on the inside, but mine is criss-crossed with scars from the microscopic sutures they used."

Seaborn leaned his elbows on his knees, waiting silently for the rest.

"I take medication to reduce the strain on my heart by slowing my heartbeat. That slows down my circulation and my blood pressure which makes me black out if I get up too fast."

Sam Seaborn studied his hands. "How long?" he asked slowly. "How long have you known?"

"I, uh, started having chest pains about three weeks ago in Cairo, but the negotiations were at a critical point and I didn't have time to deal with them. Then, on the way home from Edwards last Friday night, they became so bad I couldn't ignore them. Spent the weekend with my friends in the Coronary Care Unit at George Washington. They send their regards, by the way."

"And?" Seaborn's tone was sharp.

"And, after an echocardiogram, an MRI, an angioscopy (the scar from which itches, by the way) and several other tests I'm sure my insurance won't cover, they sent me home with three prescriptions and the same instructions as they did the first time."

"What instructions?"

"Eat right, exercise, get plenty of sleep and avoid stress."

"And if you don't?" Sam asked quietly.

Lyman shrugged. "There's worse things than dying for your country."

A crash from the kitchen brought both men to their feet. Seaborn followed his staggering friend to find Donna, on her knees, wiping up carrots from the tile with a paper towel. "I hate it when you talk like that," she said angrily, tears rolling down her face. "It's almost as if that's what you want."

"No, I don't." Josh took the refuse from her hand then dropped it in the trash. He leaned against the counter and pulled her up, wrapping his arms around her. "I plan on dying an old man playing with lots of grandchildren and loving a woman who still refuses to bring me coffee."

"Decaf," she corrected.

"Decaf," he smiled.

She buried her head in his shoulder, her slender fingers spread over his heart.

He brushed the tears from her face. "I'll take care of myself. I have too much to lose if I don't."

"Promise?" her face tilted to find his.

He covered her hand with his own. "Promise."

Sam Seaborn watched as his friend sealed his pledge with a kiss and a hug. "It's late," he said unevenly. "I'd better go." He paused at the door and his friend followed, pushing Donna in front of him by the shoulders.

Slipping his arms into his jacket, Seaborn squinted. "You put up a Christmas tree," he said incredulously.

Lyman chuckled. "Yeah, Sam, we did."

"But you're Jewish," Seaborn puzzled.

"Donna's Lutheran." Lyman smiled at his friend's confusion.

"Then why is her tree here?"

"Goodnight, Sam." Lyman opened the door, then leaned against the jamb as his usually-brilliant friend staggered stupidly down the hall. Together with Donna he counted off in a whisper, "One, two, three . . ."

Seaborn wheeled and returned, face triumphant. "She lives here," he said merrily.

"Nothing gets by you, Sam," Donna said drily.

"G'night," Lyman called, Seaborn responding with a wave.

When the hall was empty again, Donna asked over her shoulder, "Do you think he'll tell?"

"I don't know," Lyman wrapped her tighter in his arms, "I don't know."

  
  


* * *

  
  


_Monday, December 18_

  
  


Sam Seaborn leaned in Josh Lyman's door. "Missed you at lunch."

Lyman turned his back to his computer screen. "Yeah, I had an errand to run."__

"Santa's little helper?"

"Last minute presents for the white elephant exchange tonight." He clicked on an email message then scowled over his shoulder.

"You're coming?"

"Yep." Lyman opened a file folder. "Is there any reason I shouldn't?"

"Well," Seaborn parked himself on the arm of a desk chair, "if the President gets going on one of his stories, it could run pretty late."

"I'll bring my jammies."

"And the food," Sam continued.

"Yeah, isn't it great?"

"It's so rich and then there's the alcohol and . . ."

Lyman looked up, face flushing. "I can handle it, Sam," he warned.

Seaborn pressed on. "I know you could handle it before, but . . ."

Donna leaned in the door, "It's time."

Josh nodded, slipped on his suitcoat, picked up his portfolio and joined her in the doorway. "See you tonight, Sam," he said as Donna straightened his tie.

  
  


* * *

  
  


"I have never understood why Christians have fixed upon so thoroughly a pagan symbol as the evergreen tree as a symbol of their holiest day," Jed Barlet announced in the midst of an unsuccessful three-way negotiating session for a toboggan emblazoned "Ski New Hampshire." Abby Barlet had allied with Leo McGarry and Toby Ziegler to capture it for herself.

"Why don't you explain it to us, Mr. President?" Josh prompted and was promptly pelted with wads of wrapping paper by the other attendees. Grinning, he leaned over and plucked Donna Moss' glass from her hand with a raised eyebrow.

She nodded. "You get him started and then you leave," she admonished.

"Somebody has to do it," he whispered.

Sock-footed, as always, he sort of stumbled on his way, an event not unnoticed by the other partygoers. Sam Seaborn, of course, acted upon his concern.

"You okay?" he said quietly as he joined his friend at the bar.

"I'm fine, mother," Lyman responded acidly.

"Don't you think you've had enough?" Seaborn warned as Lyman poured amber liquid from an unmarked pitcher into his glass before doing the same with Donna's.

Lyman nodded in the direction of the pontificating president, "I think I'm just getting started."

Seaborn put his hand on top of the glasses. "Don't do this, Josh," Seaborn whispered earnestly. "Donna needs you-- _we_ need you-- too much to let you do this to yourself."

Lyman met his friend's concerned gaze. "Smell it."

Seaborn shook his head, confused.

Lyman held the glass to Sam's nose. "Smell it."

Seaborn sniffed. "Apple juice."

"My first bourbon made me so light-headed I . . . Don't let it get around," Lyman joked. "Wouldn't want to ruin my reputation." He returned to the sofa where he found Donna in heated negotiations with Charlie for a Green Bay "cheesehead." The president had moved on from Christmas trees to some other arcane topic all the while C. J. Cregg had now traded a stuffed bear dressed like a square dancer for the "Ski New Hampshire" toboggan. Sam returned to his seat where he failed to drum up any interest in his copy of How to Speak Southern. Josh had drawn the last number and he was left with a ratty envelope return addressed "Republican National Committee" that everyone had assiduously avoided. With a Cheshire grin he plucked the envelope from the table then quietly slipped it, unopened, into his pocket.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Abby Barlet queried.

"What is it, Josh?" C. J. asked.

"Did you bring that?" Leo McGarry accused. "You can't select your own gift, Josh."

"Yeah, Josh," Toby Ziegler chimed in. "You'll have to trade it."

Lyman hesitated for a moment, then withdrew it from his pocket. Doubt crossed his face, then confidence, as he proffered the envelope to his neighbor. "I'd like to trade this for a cheesehead."

Donna shook her head at first, but when his expression melted to tenderness, she agreed. Taking the envelope, she carefully pulled open the flap. A glance inside prompted a shy smile which, in turn, prompted a suspicious "Oh" to ripple around the room.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Donna glanced coyly at Josh before responding. "Dinner at the Palms."

"Foul," Jed Bartlett cried. "This was supposed to be a White Elephant exchange."

"Can I help it if you each chose not to stray outside your narrow-minded political label?" Lyman said slyly. The room was silent for a moment before the din of good-natured dissent overwhelmed the omnipresent carols. 

The president himself remained silent, examining the changes the past year had wrought on each face, the triumphs, the failures, the joys, the sorrows. "It is good," he began and the room quieted, "that we can be together again this Christmas," Toby Ziegler caught his eye and he corrected himself, "this _holiday_ season."

Whispered "amens" punctuated his pause.

"At times it seemed calamity was our constant companion. We seemed to lack focus, faith even, in the purpose that brought us all here. It took a near-tragedy to put it all in perspective. From that dark hour I have emerged invigorated, rededicated to the calling which brought me here. I serve," he studied each face, "_we_ serve at the pleasure of the people of the United States of America. But my wish for them, and for you, this holiday season is simple. I wish you Peace."

One-by-one, they drifted out into the falling snow, until only the two Rosslyn victims remained, their ladies lingering quietly at the door. Both tried to speak, but words were unnecessary. They shared a unique bond, unspoken, but one whose power filled each of their eyes. It was fitting, perhaps, that the elder, the one who'd offered solace in an airport gate seemingly three lifetimes ago, found the words first. When he spoke, his voice was shaky, but his eye strong but comforting. "Happy holidays, Josh."

And the younger man, whose mended heart tonight beat strong and clear, spoke softly, "Shalom, Mr. President."

  
  


End The Perpetuity of Shadows

minismith@aol.com

   [1]: mailto:minismith@aol.com
   [2]: #December 8
   [3]: #December 11
   [4]: #December 15
   [5]: #December 18
   [6]: #Benediction



End file.
